There was a pause, and then Sir Angus began again: "What would you say to our persuading Mrs. Pavely to leave England for a while, leaving only Mrs. Tropenell to face the music?" "Mrs. Pavely," said Lord St. Amant thoughtfully, "would probably refuse to leave England. I think, I fear, that she loves Oliver Tropenell--passionately." He added abruptly, "Are you having him watched?" Sir Angus cleared his throat. "Well, no, not exactly _watched_. We are of course aware that he has been staying with you for the past week, and that he is going back to Freshley Manor--is it to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow? I take it that he would probably prefer to be arrested in his mother's house." A feeling of sick horror came over the other man's heart. "I--I suppose so," he muttered. And then Sir Angus Kinross dropped his voice: "You really know this man and I don't. Do you think it advisable that he should be prepared for what is coming--that _you_, for instance, St. Amant----" "Do you mean," exclaimed Lord St. Amant, "that I may--warn him?" The other nodded. "Yes, that is what I suggest that you should do. I take it that we can be quite sure that he will do nothing mad or foolish--that he will not try to get away, for instance? It would be quite useless, and I need hardly point out that it would ruin his chances--later. I think you are at liberty to tell him, as from yourself of course, that you have reason to think he has a sporting chance, St. Amant. But I am trusting, not only to your honour, but to your secrecy and--and discretion." The other nodded gravely. "Tropenell's not the sort of man to run away." "No, I don't think he is--once he knows the game is up," answered the Commissioner of Police a trifle grimly. CHAPTER XXVII It was now early, very early in the morning after the return of Lord St. Amant to the Abbey. Dead dark, and dead quiet too, in the great sleeping house. Not dead cold, however, in his lordship's comfortable bedroom, for he had built up the fire, as he sat on and on, still fully dressed, reading, or trying to read--his bed exactly in the same state as when he had gone upstairs from the drawing-room about eleven. It was years and years since Lord St. Amant had last stayed up all night, but though he had made a great effort to forget himself in those ever fresh, even if familiar, memoirs of Saint Simon, he had found it impossible to banish from his mind--even for a few moments--the awful thing which he knew would, in a sense, never leave his mind again. For the tenth time he put his book down, marking the page with a tiny strip of green watered ribbon, on a low table by his side, and then, staring into the fire, his memory lingered--not over his talk with Sir Angus Kinross, he was sick of thinking _that_ over--but over the incidents which had marked the evening before.